


the picture they framed us to be

by PlaguedQuillfeathers (PlagueBirbizzle)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (But guess who ignored some of the ending), Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Character Death, Flashbacks, Hand Jobs, M/M, Minor Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Multi, Panic Attacks, Past Riley/Sam Wilson, Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Redwing is the best bird, Sam Wilson Can Talk to Birds, Sam Wilson-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-26 22:28:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20749790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlagueBirbizzle/pseuds/PlaguedQuillfeathers
Summary: All his life, Sam Wilson knew he was born to fly, and the universe granted him that opportunity. However, while dragging his wingman away from prying eyes once disaster strikes, a grief-stricken Sam encounters an inexplicable force, opening his eyes to the unseen nature of the skies, and those who rule it. Through morning runs, doubts, talon marks, Hydra agents, tiptoed relationships and accepting who he was made to be, the world just keeps on getting bigger.This time, however, he’s got a bird’s eye view.[for the Sam Wilson Birthday Bang 2k19 -- title taken from Beyoncé's "BIGGER"]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is!!  
I'm so excited to get this fic out for the SWBB2019!  
Lots of love and stannage to @not_worms ( [twitter](https://twitter.com/not_worms) & [tumblr](https://not-worms.tumblr.com)) for the absolutely gorgeous [art](https://plaguedquillfeathers.tumblr.com/post/187905123478/the-picture-they-framed-us-to-be-title-taken), support and everything in between! Please go spread all the love their way, as they deserve every single bit of it and more!
> 
> Happy Samtember, everyone!

**** _ When he was seven years old -- still living in a world that seemed far too big -- Sam had built a bird feeder. _

_ It was for a school project, made with the uncanny focus of a kid with too much time on his hands. With an empty plastic bottle saved from a nearby bin, two sticks and some borrowed scissors from his mama’s sewing kit, he had crafted what he thought to be the best thing that month, animatedly showing it off to his brother (also known as the safety-scissor user). _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Miss Bradley had given him full marks, but the percentage did not interest him for more than a few minutes. No, there were more pressing matters at hand. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “Can they eat now?” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ A bird feeder would mean nothing without seeds, which he received thereafter. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ For most kids in his neighborhood, the bird feeders were soon discarded and forgotten, a lost footnote in their childhood memories, but he had refused to let it go. The birds enjoyed it when it hung on the fire-escape, trekking over to peck at the small openings for a quick meal. _

_ While Sam rarely saw anything but pigeons and doves, the rare occasion of a starling on a Saturday afternoon through the window had him racing to call someone else. _

_ Gid usually stayed briefly before getting bored, while his mama would sit and ask questions when she had the time. His papa, with a mind so big that Sam thought the world of it, offered to find a better place for the feeder. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Thus, every Sunday after his father’s sermon, Sam recalled sitting on the bench outside the church, legs swinging as he waited for a bird to land on his feeder in the tree. Sometimes, he’d sulk -- the lack of seeds making his session obsolete -- but he had been sure his papa would come with more for the birds. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ When he came, they’d sit quietly, oftentimes talking about the week, the sermon, or something else entirely. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ On one occasion, the topic turned to the feeder. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “I don’t see anyone filling theirs anymore, but yours is still up. You want to see the birds, Sammy?” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ His nod had been vigorous, ecstatic. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “Why?” The soft words had not been laced with lack of interest, nor were the frown-lines on his papa’s face anything but curious. Their relationship worked like that -- he would never want his son to be afraid of asking questions, nor forming opinions, for those were his own to evolve. _

_ “One day,” Sam had started, calm. “I want to fly like one. A bird. Be in the air. If I’m nice, maybe they’ll teach me, papa.” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “Oh!” That brought a smile to his father’s face, low voice rumbling with a fond chuckle. “One day, we’ll fly together, alright? It’s a big sky up there…” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “It won’t be big if you with me, papa. And mama, Gid, and Sarah can come too. We can all fly together.” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “Together?” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “Together.” A strong nod. “The sky is big enough for everyone.” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “You’ll get bigger too, Sam, I promise. Then things won’t be as big anymore.” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “Like an eagle? A big eagle?” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “Maybe.” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ His father had been partially right. Sam grew bigger while the world seemed to grow smaller -- be it in the family or in friends -- yet he had not left the ground. Gone were the dreams of courting the birds to teach him their secrets, picked away like the final seeds in a birdfeeder; those thoughts were replaced with a need to do better and be better for himself and his siblings. _

_ They’d all grown up quite quickly, but he had grown antsy, frustrated. _ _   
_ _ He had needed an out from all those feelings. _

_ And yet, with one decision in his life, the world had suddenly started to expand once more. _

  


_ The Falcon program had taught him many things, some that he’d never have expected to learn when he enlisted, but between all of them, a few stood out among the rest. The first came on the first hour of training -- at ease among nine equally confused individuals. They’d been singled out on The Pipeline; for what, he had no idea. Yet they were there, quietly wondering whether the order would end in dismissal or otherwise. _

_   
_ _ It did not end in the former, but for some, it did. Too big, too bright -- the future they were offered was not for them. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “Your first lesson will be how to get off the ground. The second: how not to end up six feet under it.” _

_ Granted, opening a formal offer with footage of crashing test pilots never quite set the mood, bodies tumbling with an eerie grace and an unseen destination. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ For nature did not intend for humans to fly like birds, and yet they still found ways to prove her wrong. _

_ It was uncanny how they fell, metallic wings often pulled back as if the gods held them together, but the body slumped as if life was already gone. Others seemed to twist and turn in a frenzy as if fighting the air would cease their fall. For some, there didn’t seem to be wings attached at all, bodies falling. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Falling. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ And yet he’d stayed, mind still rooted in the idea of soaring, the act of defying gravity. The ground would be merely a harness -- gravity, a restriction. His eyes would be trained permanently on the skies, ready to save those below. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ So he’d stayed. _

_ “Looks like we’re in for the long haul, birdy.” Sun-kissed freckles, a wide grin, deep brown eyes -- The man’s voice sounded just out of reach, laced with the drawl of a country boy, warmth seeping through his pores. Pretty. Pretty handsome. “Let’s try not to fall for each other, yeah?” _

_ A simple request, he had agreed, sharing his own grin as the man elbowed him goodnaturedly. A friend in this new era. “Let’s first get off the ground first, man.” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “Well, that’s true. Name’s Riley.” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “Sam.” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “Sam,” The name was tested on his lips with interest, grin manifesting once more -- far more toothy -- and he’d basked in the warmth of it. Pretty. “I’ll see you in the clouds then. We’ll go from spring chickens to falcons in no time. ” _

_ “Just gotta keep pushing onwards. We got this far.” He could not remember the expression he made, but he’d like to think it was a smile of his own. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “Of course. Onwards and upwards, yeah? Hopefully, we don’t regret it.” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “Hopefully, yeah.” _ _   
_ _   
_ _ He didn’t. They didn’t. From the physics lessons to the flights to the hard sandy floors under constellations learned through tall tales, they were a unit, perhaps more than he had anticipated. _

_ It was the small things that stayed -- the small conversations that weaved between his being with the warmth that traveled like blood within his veins. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ The small talks, long talks and dumb talks alike -- from family to bird facts to a near-miss in training. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ The wide-eyed stares at a well-timed joke, laughter following soon after. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Their first dive, arching to mimic their namesakes, g-force wrenching all the right heartstrings. Wings, brought close in a pseudo embrace, kept them right on course. _ _   
_ _ Always on course. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ The nicknames. The teasing. The time spent where no one would look, skin soft under calloused fingers. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ The small things...they had mattered. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Riley mattered. He always would. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Wilson and Hayes, Hayes and Wilson, Sammy and Riles: there was something lost in referring to the nature of a single part when the whole functioned exponentially greater, wrapped in similar feathers. _ _   
_ _   
  
_

_ And then he fell, a blaze of flame-tipped feathers as gravity pulled his soul under, world silent. Riley did not scream, nor did Sam remember the blur of a face he watched as he tumbled, but the sound -- the scream that left his lips, straining his vocal cords to the peak of their function -- that shook the heavens. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ He’d been too slow to dive. He should have seen them, could have seen them, wanted to have seen them, but the blast came out of nowhere as Riley dived, striking his back with unseen claws. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ A routine mission, they’d said, nothing more than that. Fly in, fly out, don’t be seen, don’t be too slow. _

_ Too slow, too shocked, too heavy, too-- _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Too everything. _

_   
_ _ He knew was a spectator; he was the one Death left to tell a tale. _

_ He was screaming -- why was he still screaming -- as instinct kicked in, voices screaming in his ear to gain altitude, to climb the skies. Upwards, further away from Riley, and yet he’d done as he was told. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ The sky seemed impossibly larger when he realized he was alone, air suddenly feeling colder, heavier. _

_ It was only when his lungs seized up, choking back a sob, that he felt the tears stinging at his eyes. _

_ He was gone. _

* * *

“Area all clear. Proceed to rendezvous with the necessary equipment.” The slight buzz in his earpiece feels like a rope around his skull, slowly tightening with each syllable, and yet Sam finds himself confirming his orders without a waver in tone. 

_ What about the body? _   
_ What about the body? _

His thoughts, however, betray him, rattling against the cage he’d placed to keep himself together. _ Together. Not together. Alone. Oh god- _

Crimson bleeds into the warm sand, sheen nauseating under the moonlight. Wings, twisted, sprawl out along the grass. _ Scrap. Not fit to fly ever again. _   
  
_ Bring it home _ versus _ bring him home. _

  
Protocol preceded personal gain.

_ No. _

So Sam crouches, hands shaking, and lifts Riley up as much as he can, grunts turning into pathetic whines whenever the weight of his pack and Riley’s makes him stagger.

_ One step, two-step, three-step, four- _   
  
The small canyon looks endless, barren, walls closing in on either side. Riley’s feet drag along the canyon floor, limp, and Sam blocks out the continuous sound with his own harsh breathing. They needed shelter, somewhere to wait, and then they’d move. 

_ They both needed it. He can’t leave him. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ He can’t leave him. _ _   
_ _ He can’t leave. _

“Please no-” The minutes stretch on like hours as he pulls them both towards a small cavern system, silently praying that they were not the only ones. It’s dark, allowing the infrared to tint completely, deceptive when turned towards Riley beside him.   
  
_ Still deceptively warm. _   
  
Sam collapses to the floor, a shaky sob rattling out of his throat.   
  
The world comes crashing in soon after.

So Sam sits, shoulders shaking as he curls into a ball, goggles tugged off his eyes, and cries silent tears, body shuddering with the force of an unseen storm. Grief, tugging frantically, caused his head to slump towards his knees.   
  
There was nothing he could do.

He doesn’t know how long he stays like that, curled up next to the lost source of his favourite smile, his favourite sound against his ear, but he stays. Aggressive in denial, impossible in acceptance. 

The exo-suit weighs heavy on his back.

He doesn’t have the strength to take it off.

Yet, as he sits and heaves in an attempt to stop the white noise in his ears, something thrums behind him. Soft, yet particular in its sound. Not human, nor animal -- just an inexplicable thrum.

_ Sam. _   
  
He turns immediately, weapons brandished, and sees blue.   
  
It lights up the cavern with a vengeance, crawling along the rocks and twisting among the jagged peaks from the staggered ceiling. The light, pulsing, shifts as he stands, alive, as if dancing.   
  
He pauses, eyes squinting, and takes a step forward, cautious. 

_ This is not a dream. _

Another step. Cautious.   
  
_ This can’t not a dream. _

Another step. Wary. 

_ This is not-- _

The thrum returns, louder, pleased, and Sam sees the light before he feels it. Warmth, soft, wrapping around the edges of his vision, bursts forth from the glow as he staggers back, breath catching. It seeps deeper, twisting, kneading, and he gasps at the feeling, eyes shutting at the sharp pain starting to reach behind his eyes.

It burns.   
  
He feels his knees hit the floor before he throws out his hands to catch himself, eyes still shut in pain, the lack of tears short-circuiting his thoughts. _ It hurt. Where were the tears-- _

The world seemed to sing as one, yet he could not hear the answer.   
  
_ Too much. _ _   
_ _ Too much. _ _   
_ _ Too much- _ _   
_ _   
_Sam slumps, a groan leaving his lips, and shivers at the overwhelming sensation, cheek pressed snug against the cavern floor. Moving felt like torture, his sight even more so. His mind, aware, started drifting off. 

_ Dying. He was dying. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ No. _

As he drifts off, the burn behind his eyes still forcing him to keep his eyes shut, he swears the sky is not as bright from where he stands.

* * *

The burn is gone when he wakes up, and so is the dust and blood. Instead, nurses fret upon his every breath, bright lights making their clothing blend into an equally bright room. 

They don’t mention the bright blue, nor do they ask. 

They heal him and let him go. 

His exo-suit, polished, sits upon his bed on arrival.  
  
The bed beside him is empty, stripped of sheets. He cannot ignore it. His throat catches. 

He can’t ignore it.   
  
He sleeps. He wakes up. He stares.   
  
They give him time.

Condolences start flooding in as soon as the word gets out, old friends and new allies inching their way into his path to share them. Sam takes each and every word in stride, smile stiff and gaze hollowed. He has to. He has to know. 

He has to try. 

Eat. Sleep. Train. Do something.

Days pass. Weeks. A month.

An eagle chooses to nest at the base, causing chaos among the young ‘uns tasked to chase it away.

The burn arrives. He ignores it.

He pushes on. He pushes forward. 

_ Eat. Sleep. Train. Cry. Train. Help. Move. Sleep- _

That’s what Riley would have wanted.   
  
_ Eat. Sleep. Train. Cry. Train. Help. Move- _ _   
_ _   
_ Onwards and upwards, right?   
  
_ Eat. Sleep. Train. Cry. Train- _

Right?  
  
By the time his tour starts to draw to a close, Sam wonders what he’s wanting for, gaze trained to the sky on a hot day, raptors circling above. _ What did he want? _

  
He doesn’t look back once he decides it isn’t that.   
  
He doesn’t look up when the wings retract for the final time.

The burn comes back full force.  


* * *

_ It takes a while before planes stop bringing tears to his eyes, silhouettes cruising through the sky reminding him of days long past. His bed, far too soft, oftentimes has him opting for the couch, throw blanket haphazardly tugged to cover him. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ He drives to and from the VA center with the windows up, air conditioner making up for the summer heat; the popping in his ears when the windows were down never quite excited him. It only makes the vacuum in his chest return with full force, heart pounding and hands clenched tight on the wheel. _ _   
  
_

_ He didn’t want that -- nobody does, his group leader says, eyes kind -- but he’s working on it. Bit by agonizing bit, he talks, oftentimes switching from one-word days to incessant rambling. They listen, they respond, and he slowly finds himself talking more. Going out. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Sam finds himself doing the small things first -- small grocery trips, the odd facetime call with Sarah and the kids -- but they feel good. The sort of ‘treat yourself to ice-cream’ good that has him visiting a small stall on his Saturday jogs, befriending the kind woman behind it. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Routine slowly feels less like a crutch, as does talking. He settles, makes friends, signs up to assist people who are just starting their own recovery. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ His jogs start gaining speed and increased distance, while his nights slowly retreated back into something akin to peaceful slumber. In both scenarios, Riley’s dog tag sits snug on a chain around his neck, an invisible arm of comfort. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ He pushes on. He tries his best _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Days turned into weeks, which turned into months, and Sam thinks he can feel better -- do better -- be it among his group sessions or weekly fitness checks. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ DC is not as big as it used to feel, not even remotely so. _

_   
_ _ Yet, out of all the words he’d expressed and the steps he’d taken, the burn doesn’t leave, ebbing and flowing with the time of day. _

_ He tells no one. _

_ Why would he tell them? It had probably been a symptom of the trauma he’d faced only a few hours prior to getting knocked out, after all. The headaches had been attuned to stress as well. It was only a hallucination -- the mind’s way of reacting to stress -- but almost a year and a half into it, he was having doubts. _   
  
“Well, fuck me.”   
  
The alarm rings -- some default tone he isn’t bothered to change since its annoying sound does the trick all too well. 

Yet, for some reason, the greater sound comes from birds singing outside his window, each chirp causing his head to throb. 

He rolls over, eyes closing for a few more minutes once he gets his fingers to rub at his temple. The other hand reaches out to disable the alarm. 

The birds continue chirping, sounding impossibly close.

_ They’re fucking loud. _

Unable to ignore them, he gets up with a groan, trekking towards the bathroom with half-lidded eyes and the odd yawn -- products of a longer stretch of sleep than usual. It was nothing that a cup of coffee wouldn’t fix, or at least some OJ in the fridge if he remembered to replace the carton.

He hadn’t remembered, which only made him produce a small grumble. “Coffee it is.” 

The birds hadn’t stopped chirping as he filled the kettle or when he went to open the window for some fresh air, but once he let the glass slide up, the noise only seemed to increase exponentially.   
  
_ Ringing. _ _   
_ _ All too bright- _

_ Hello! Hello! Hello! Hello! _

Voices, as clear as day, bounced around his head, ballooning, swelling-

Hello.

Hands slamming the window closed, Sam staggers backward in shock, eyes closed until his back hit the counter. “What the hell-”  
  
_ Hello! Hello! Hello! _

The sounds continue to swell, shrill in nature, and Sam stares, slack-jawed, as his head melts with the searing pain behind immensely alert eyes. He liked to think his pain tolerance was immensely well-adjusted, but this sort of pain was numbing, knocking the breath out of him.

_ Hello! Hello! Hello! -- _ The voices don’t seem to stop.   
  
Yet, one pings in, calm, and overshadows the rest.   


It speaks.

_ <Breathe.> _ _   
_ _   
_ Blue briefly clouds his vision, familiar, only to tint red with an unfamiliar embrace. It swirls without mercy -- like feathers, beating strong against the sky. Powerful, a brilliant crimson, protecting the fires of a thousand heartbeats _ . Warm- _

_ Warm. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ <You need to open your eyes.> _

_ No! _Sam turns towards the voice, startled, and finds nothing at the window of note, except a small finch pecking at something on the sill. Nothing dangerous. 

_ Safe. _   
  
Nothing as close as the voice tickling the sides of his head. 

_ Was he hearing things? _

He expresses the thought with a sigh, blinking vigorously; the bird seems to mind its business, still pecking. “I’m hearing things, alright. Some weird things, true, but I’m hearing them.” 

The kettle clicks off, causing him to look away from the window, and he instinctively moves towards it. 

Coffee, yes. He wanted to make coffee. Good old coffee -- reliable and voice free.   
  
Organic, too. 

He can do that.  
  
So he focuses on the process with an intensity he never had, adding a healthy amount of sugar because he deserves a pick-me-up, and turns to the window once he is done. The finch, still pecking, senses it’s being watched, and stares back. 

Alert.  
  
A stalemate. 

_ Why is it watching- _   
  
Sam ducks his head, huffing. “It’s just a bird, not some government drone.” If he was going to hear voices, he wouldn’t let those dumb facebook posts his aunt sent him cause a problem. Leave the aliens and robots to New York, if any. 

It was just a bird. 

It wasn’t even a _ scary _bird, like a swan, or an ostrich; the little guy would die with one well-timed punch from him. 

“No, that’s morbid. I’m not punching a bird.” Sam makes a face, sipping at his coffee once more. “I’ll leave some bread out or something later as an apology for thinking that. Damn.”   
  
It’s just one of those days.

With that sorted, Sam downs the rest of his coffee as he checks his phone, leaning on his counter with some of his weight. There wasn’t much to see, nor many messages to respond to, so his focus on his cup had him finishing far quicker than usual.   
  
Small things, really.

Nonetheless, he remembers his list of things to do, fishing out a slice of bread from the breadbox as he places his mug in the sink. On his way to the backyard, idle hands slowly pick the slice apart -- that way, they’ll be less fighting for the resource -- he holds the clumps in a hand while he gets onto the back porch. There was a particular set of finches that searched around on the grass usually-

He pauses.

The backyard is silent, no birds in sight.

Cautious, Sam picks up the nearest item he could reach -- a rake -- and grips it tightly. This was not doing well for paranoia, but at the same time he did not want to get jumped by _ some military drone bird- _

He grimaces at the thought; Aunt Hilda’s facebook tales were unavoidable. “Come on now.”   
  
Inching forward, he tosses the bread into the grass, watching for the telltale signs of feeding, but nothing seems to take the offering. 

Silent.

Deceptive.

He waits.   
  
The yard wasn’t all that impressive; he’d decided on the house with little concern for the backyard, after all. It was large enough to host a small party, with the border fence being lined by a few shrubs and an ancient tree, so he never quite complained. However, such open space and a well-grown tree usually gave rise to the avian life in the neighborhood stopping by, atmosphere usually brimming with chirps and chitters.   
  
Yet, there were none, and that could only spell trouble. 

Sam glances up at the tree, trying to spot anything moving within the branches, and uncovers nothing of note as he squints. His eyes, however, start to water, an itch festering along the back of them. Odd. Unnatural.  
  
He looks away, frustrated and concerned, only to see it.   
  
A bird. Just one.   
  
Later on, Sam would identify the small creature as a thrush, but the bird seemed to have flown in from nowhere, now enjoying the offering presented to it on the grass. It was alone, happily pecking at the bread bits, but Sam freezes to avoid startling the creature.   
  
The others must be close behind. _ Everything was fine. _

He breathes out, content, attempting to push the burn away.   
  
Everything was fine. 

It was in his self-reassurance that he looks up at the morning sky, attempting to spot more birds in the sky. Perhaps the sight of another eating would attract the rest? The sky, however, yields nothing for the first few moments, clouds lazily rolling by. Sam smiles, content. 

Everything is fine, but then it isn't.

The shadow appears soon after, silhouetted against the sky, and Sam briefly notes the small tug of a nerve within his eyes before he registers what it is.   
  
He’s seen it before. He’s seen the red, even if it’s too far to see it then. _ He feels it. _ _   
_ _   
_ The bird stoops, and dives.   
  
Sam barely has enough time to gasp, the sensation rattling within his skull pulling forth the sound of air rushing past ears and the feeling of it running under feathers -- _ feathers _ \-- that are not his. He feels the minute flexing of muscles in wings he never owned, sending shivers along his arms, toes curling as talons open.   
  
He sees the thrush, oblivious to its death, growing impossibly close.   
  
The bird dives and Sam feels like he dives with him.   
  
_ Food. Food. Food. Food! _

_ Food. _

It’s all over before he blinks, watching the crimson bird close its talons around the smaller bird, traveling a bit of a distance before landing, kill complete. Sam can almost feel the sensory overload of both hunter and hunted, eyes watering as one suddenly flickers out, crackling with a life once held.

The triumphant bird, however, heaves, as if the feat itself was merely a brief jog, before staring down at its catch.  
  
"What-" Sam, ears ringing and gaze slightly clouded, notes that he _ shouldn’t _ be seeing that angle, let alone _ feeling _ that intake of breath. _ In. Out. In. Out- _

“Who...who are you?” He finds his breath, voice barely rising above a whisper. “What is this?”

Now, if Sam had been in his right mind, he would have questioned the necessity of directing the question at a bird of all things, but he couldn’t stop himself from expressing his thoughts, not when he just saw a first-person (_ first-bird?) _ point of view for a hunt.   
  
The bird seems to pause, feathers fluffing up, before flattening in some sort of resignation. How Sam knew that, he could not tell. Yet, the bird continues to stare at its prey, contemplative.   
  
Sam expects the burn to arrive, but it didn’t. Not with this. 

It just feels warm.  
  
“Please...What are you?”   
  
With the clarity of a human voice, swarming with the warmth of an old friend, Sam receives his reply. The bird, gaze golden in the morning light, finally makes eye contact, unafraid.   
  
_ Familiar. _

<_ Now that you’ve opened your eyes, you can tell me.> _

Sam feels his heart lurch in his chest, gripping the handle of the rake until he feels the wood press uncomfortably in his palm. _ The bird hadn’t moved its beak. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ It just stared. _

“...You.”  
  
< _ Me. Yes. You can hear me. I’ve been hearing from you for many moon cycles, human...Seeing what you see.> _As if the bird finds the whole conversation quite normal, it let go of its meal, leaving it to hop forwards. 

Sam notes how human its eyes looked, curiosity rolling off him in waves. “Seeing what I see…” A confused sound leaves his lips, completely in disbelief of the situation. “Like what I did just now? I could…”  
  
_ See? Hear? Through you? _The words tangle themselves, but the pleasant warmth in the back of his mind seemed to be enough for the bird to shake its head. Far too human.

<_ It goes both ways, human. Sam. I need to know why. We need to know why.> _

That piques Sam’s interest, stepping towards the porch stairs with wariness -- _ It knows my name -- _ and he shivers. _ It feels familiar. _

They stare, at a stalemate: a not-so-bird and a not-so-human, at least currently. 

The warmth, however, stays, comforting like a mother’s strong embrace.

_ They need to know. _

“How do I know--” Sam starts, palm shifting up the rake-handle. “How do I know this isn’t the road to ruin, huh? Why would I trust you?”  
  
The bird pauses for a long time, head bowed, before looking back up again. Its eyes, slightly closed, express something Sam didn’t think he’d see up close, at least from a bird that could do some damage. 

He sees trust, mirrored with a similar sort of fear in his chest. Vulnerable. 

_ <I trust you... because I’ve seen you. Let me let you see me. Please.> _ _   
_ _   
_As the warmth thrums, Sam finds himself not being able to dismiss the request. 

* * *

His name is Redwing. 

Age: An indiscernible amount of moon cycles.   
Species: Unidentifiable.   
  
The latter, which Sam spent far too much time researching, has him believing that the bird of prey is, in fact, an alien. However, Red seems to be oblivious to what lies beyond the stars, referencing plush rainforest and humid climates.   
  
If anything, Sam is currently betting on an alternate reality. 

Nonetheless, Redwing exhibits attributes that would place him -- somewhat ironically -- as a falcon, coloring aside. His feathers make him stand out, that’s for sure, and while Sam had wanted to compare him to a macaw, Redwing’s plumage was duller, reaching some sort of rusty red coloration. It reminds Sam of a bearded vulture, feathers stained with the remains of its kills, proud, but only on a darker canvas.

It suits him, looking suspiciously raptor-like, coppery reds standing proud among the darker hues, but wildly exotic all the same.  


The signature black falcon markings stay darkened around his eyes, extending just down towards his chest. On further inspection -- when Sam was finally able to get close, he notes similar checkered spots along the underside of his wings and tail, red-black-and-grey in the sunlight. 

Unnatural. 

_ <We aren’t natural, Sam.> _

Not that he could say anything, especially as the voices now had sources. The birds never stopped talking if Sam kept his focus on them, oftentimes startling a stray pigeon whenever he made his presence known. His usual responses ranged from full-blown fear to equal curiosity, which had him being quite careful in public.   
  
There were only a few times where he forgot, but at least the park pigeons were known for swarming random citizens. 

_ Human can hear? Human can hear?! How can you hear, human? _ _   
_ _   
_The pigeons, despite being less refined than Redwing, usually moved as a unit, echoing each other until he pleaded with them to keep quiet. Usually, they calmed down and listened, but oftentimes most of them tried to peck at his shoes, questions rising in volume. 

The burn slowly ebbs out with each conversation; Sam is unaware if it’s the experience shifting the weight of their minds or himself getting stronger.

Redwing, having made his home in the backyard tree, merely tells him to continue testing his limits, chest puffed out with pride.

It makes him smile.

The other birds seem far more sporadic in their welcomes, but as of yet Sam seems to be enjoying the experience. If anything, the only discomfort comes from control in its various forms: oftentimes, the sheer number of birds flocking to greet him at parks has a violent headache springing forth, while other instances stem from him staying up with Redwing for too long, gazes linked to watching the earth below.

<_ Do you miss it? Flight? _ > The raptor never stops asking the question, having sat on Sam’s shoulder one rainy night as he sifted through a folder he was not supposed to have. < _ Surely you must miss it. _ >   
  
He did. 

“Kind of, Red, but I’m fine down here. You birds can do the flying for me, alright? It’s natural like that.”   
  
The bird seems to pause, considering his reply, before Sam feels feathers nudge into his neck, followed by the light scrape of a beak.   
  
Affection. Unnatural from his species. 

<_ Yet you still crave it, human friend, looking up towards the skies. I wish you could come back. _ >   


He briefly hears a more vocal response as he brings a hand up, fingers running along with the soft feathers of the bird’s neck, and smiles.   
  
“Maybe in our dreams, Red. Maybe.”   
  
The bird seemed to hum, feathers fluffing out, warm to the touch.   
  
< _ Perhaps. _> 

* * *

  
The world turns on as Sam continues with his days, gaze clouding on occasion when he turns his sights to the skies; this time, however, it follows paths that no human could say they quite know, diving and swooping between buildings and trees with a purpose only nature could explain. He loves it, crouching down to place a fallen bird back in its nest, smiling at curious children who call him a prince. He adores it, finding a barren field to toss cuts of meat into the air, watching as his falcon tears through the air to catch it.   
  
Yet, he still misses it: cutting through the wind as the world seems so small below.   
  
He has -- for lack of a better quote ripoff -- tasted flight, and damn, did he wish he could return at times.   
  
But he continues, writing his own story with his newfound quill-pens, jotting down the good days for a pick-me-up and the bad days to remember how far he’s come. Someday, the latter could make for a good story, after all; he could help others through his experiences. 

He heads a group session at the VA, bi-weekly, usually at least three-quarters full, and enjoys it. He’s been in those seats, scared and frustrated and oh-so-lost, but he’s now ready to help where he can. _ He loves that. _

Things are looking up, in almost every sense of the term. 

He was happy, and that was all he wanted at the moment.  
  
< _ Which route are you running today, Sam? _ > Redwing’s voice pings in from somewhere in the trees as Sam laces his shoes, the dawn light having turned the sky a pretty shade of purple. The sun would be up soon, and the bird said it made his feathers look striking.   
  
Showoff. 

_ “Normal route. Nothing out of the ordinary.” _ His mutter is soft, having forgotten that he didn’t have to speak aloud. It’s still a learning curve, reminding oneself to use their inside voice completely.   
  
< _ Sounds about right. _ >   
  
_ Come on Red, birds don’t have lanes up in the air. _

<_ We do, but humans are blind, unlike you. Stinky featherless creatures _ .>   
  
_ Leave my species out of this, feather-ass. Go get your sunning done. _

With that said, Sam takes off at his normal pace, falling into the familiar rhythm without much struggle. The National Mall is quiet today, with the chatter giving off little from the standard calling.  
  
Some birds seem to be looking for nesting partners, while others scream about the dangers of the sky. Most, running on tinges of hunger, merely chant _ bread-human _, probably keeping their eyes peeled for a little old lady with a plastic bag. 

Sam tunes them out with a smile and continues running. He didn’t need the company, not really. 

Yet, as he passes the long stretch of the reflection pool, bathed in violet and blue, the sound of another passes beside him, followed by the figure all but pelting off into the distance. 

“On your left.”

He catches a hint of blonde before his gaze betrays him, a small frown forming on his lips. The guy could just be training for something or other, after all.

Sam hunkers down, maintains his pace and keeps on running. 

<_ He’s coming again. _ >   
  
Redwing’s warning pops in, and Sam makes a face of confusion before he senses a jogger -- no, sprinter -- behind him. Once again, the same voice sounds just as he passes him, parroting his last phrase without any indication of fatigue.   
  
_ What the- _ “Uhuh. On my left. Got it.” He replies, keeping his voice as level as he can, but a tinge of sarcasm wraps around the words.   
  
_ It was turning out to be one of those days, huh? _

<_ He’s veered off the path but has not stopped running. Fast human. Posturing. _> 

Unnatural.

_ Sure he is, Red. He’s a fast dude. _

_ <Could be putting on a display. Fast mates make hunting-> _ _   
_ _   
_ That has Sam almost tripping over his feet, a small sound escaping his lips. _ You’ve got to be kidding me, Red. There’s a better explanation than- _

Redwing, however, blocks the reply before it reaches, leaving Sam to his own thoughts as he keeps his pace. The weird jogger guy probably wants to mess with him, or just took a really weird route among the mall.   
  
It was fine, right? A normal day.   


He is wrong.

He senses it before he turns his head, finally managing to catch the sight of mystery sprinter as he comes up beside him. Sam, expecting anything but _ Captain-fucking-America, _does a double-take, but his mind is already set on saying the words in his mouth. 

“Don’t say it. Don’t say it-”

_ Captain-fucking-America, _with his whole chest, pelts by, repeating his phrase without any hint of fatigue, and Sam, lungs screaming, attempts to catch up.

America’s resident bully-jogger soon disappears.

He fails, yes, but the effort is admirable, right?  
  
That is what he tells himself as he slumps against a tree five minutes later, eyes closed while he catches his breath. There’s not much he can think of at the moment, not with his mind remembering to expand and contract his damn lungs, but once he opens his eyes, he notes the approaching figure with slight interest.

_ Of course, he looks good. Goddammit. _

“Need a medic?”

Now, it had been way too many years since his high school history classes, but between the Smithsonian and the recent years, Sam knew the face. The fact that he’s seeing it running past him, however, is odd, let alone being approached by said face. 

“You ran 18 miles in three minutes.” The words come out in mock disappointment, which Running-Man-America seems to pick up, firing back some words of his own. 

He has jokes behind that pretty face; Sam respects that.

So he continues, easing into calm conversation as he’s helped to his feet, noting the effortless pull from the other with slight interest, then pure confusion at the whole interaction. _ This is weird. Really weird- _

His mouth expresses his thoughts with a question -- simple, and probably standard to those he meets -- but he notes the shift in expression, the closing of doors. 

If anything, Sam has become explicitly aware of body language, let alone the voice of others.  
  
Steve speaks, but the tone has changed. 

  
_ Fuck. _

He’s pried way too hard, probably tripping up the conversation -- he knows that look far too well, one of resignation, or at least discomfort.

He can’t let that look last.

“It’s your bed, right?” The words pop out before he can stop himself once more, and Steve seems confused, so he elaborates. Shares a bit of himself.

He sees a slight smile. Pretty. Pretty handsome.  
  
He smiles back.   


The fever dream, however, comes to a halt with hints of a high note, and Sam contemplates Marvin Gaye albums as he extends his place of work. Naturally, there are doubts as to whether it would be taken up, but why not? 

He’d do it for anyone else, yeah?   
  
_ Yeah. _

<_ Who is this America-Human? You smiled... _>

From his crouch, Sam hears Redwing chime back in, before catching the shades of red within a tree that the pretty car (_ with Black Widow inside, holy fuck) _drove past. The bird is preening, but he can almost tell it’s unnecessary.

_ I’ll explain when we get home, but come on. I smile. _

<_ Not like that, human. _> 

_ You’re full of jokes today, huh? _

<_ Sometimes facts cannot be explained away by feelings, human. _>

The bird takes off, highly amused, and Sam manages a small huff before he feels himself get cut off. 

_ Shut up. _

* * *

As if the world opted to mess around with him, Sam adds the VA to his fledgling list of “Where does one spot Avengers outside of New York” list, but maintains his cool as he listens to one of the vets talk about her experiences. He can compartmentalize, after all, and his group session took precedence over some national treasure. 

Once the session ends, he meets Captain -- no, Steve -- outside the door, noting the contrast in outfits almost immediately (_ Who wouldn’t? That shirt was at least a size small for no other reason but to be like that. _) but smiling once more at the compliment sent his way. He was there to help others, after all, and he says such with a humble shrug. 

Steve smiles back, and Sam swears he feels Redwing link in to watch, probably still on his bullshit. 

Yet, as Sam talks, he finds the hint of a friend nearby invaluable once he starts talking about Riley, leaning on the mental link as he pushes away thoughts and speaks freely. It helps, and he appreciates it, especially when he notes the slight cracks within the other’s armor.   
  
Everyone has experienced loss, but some more than others. 

It’s just finding happiness, after all, in this big, bad world. 

Steve seems to take that to heart; even if Sam notes just how long that journey may take, he hopes it happens, that his friends are there for support. It’s weird, seeing the man outside of a book or TV screen, but he gets it. 

He gets it.

When he gets back home, satisfied with the day, he finds himself reading Riley’s old letters well into the night, smile less pained than usual.

* * *

With how the last few days had gone, Sam doesn’t expect the rest of the week to get any crazier, especially since he had presumably used up all the weirdness already. Thus, the next day or so goes without a hitch, ending with some alone time down by the nearest park. 

Thus, as he wakes up to the familiar alarm on his bedside table, he writes off the day as slow, letting his running route shifting to something longer. Redwing, having opted to sun the morning away, meets him at the front porch when he arrives home, cawing softly in greeting as they enter the house.   
  
_ “No hunting today?” _ Behind closed doors, Sam let himself speak aloud, relishing the feeling; it was hard to remember at times, garnering many instances of things whispered under his breath.   
  
< _ Not hungry. _ > Hopping onto the kitchen counter, Redwing ruffles his feathers, eyes trained on the door. < _ I will eat later, when the sun is higher.> _ _   
_ _   
_Sam notes the distracted tone but dismisses it. If anything, he’ll ask after something to drink; it was a slower jog, but a longer distance. He deserves that good ol’ OJ.

_ “If you say so, Red.” _ Thus, as he bends over to take out the bottle of orange juice, he glances over. _ “You do you.” _

Silence.   
  
Redwing doesn’t answer, watching the door with ever-increasing intensity. 

_ “Redwing?” _   
  
< _ America Human. > _

He pauses, hand poised over the lid, and immediately reconnects. 

When it came to the _ bird-talk _ , or whatever one wants to call it, Sam had found it easier to shut off the rest of the voices if he kept at least one open. Luckily for him, Redwing didn’t mind being linked for most parts of the day, or at least when Sam needed an anchor from the avian collective; they were a duo in and out, something that Sam cherishes.   
  
Thus, without question, he opens the base threads of his reach, immediately propelling himself to the nearest birds with the area. The speed at which he does so, however, brings spots to the corner of his eyes, burn spiking before settling once again. 

He spots the two familiar faces at the door just as the knock is heard. 

He feels the bird stiffen, sensing his confusion. _ It’s okay. I hope. _

<_ America Human.> _

_ I know. _

Given their state, it was probably not a friendly visit.

Nonetheless, Sam walks forward and opens the door, subsequently getting bombarded with six feet of the world’s greatest kicked-puppy, expression exuding an aura he wouldn’t expect to see.   
  
So he greets them, maintaining eye-contact as he gently prods the birds around him for info. _ Who is there? Are they being followed? What is happening? _

Everyone is trying to kill them, after all.   
  
Sam strikes his name off the list. _ Redwing, hide. _

<_ Already gone. _ >   
  
From the looks of it, finding a brief haven won’t keep them safe. However, the thought does not stop him from helping out, which involves two awkward avengers being shown the bathroom and various other necessities before he retreats to the kitchen. For once, buying extra eggs seems to serve a purpose outside future laziness, so they enter the frying pan without much thought. 

A sparrow overhears the muffled voices from the bedroom, perching on the windowsill.  
Sam ignores it.

Well, until the eggs start to reach their limit, in which he leads his guests back to the kitchen. With a ghost of a smile, Sam notes Natasha’s gaze land on the wooden perch in the corner, before they seem to get down to business.

From what he hears, though, it seems that breakfast is far from required. 

_ Missle strikes. Traitors. The world in peril. _ _   
_ _   
_All said within the confines of his home? 

It was times like this where he wonders if the universe enjoys messing with him. 

But they continue, and by the looks of it, they’re understaffed and in for a lot of work, given the nature of the issue. 

_ A lot of work. _

So he leaves, fetches the files-that-should-not-be-named, and shoots his shot. Drops his glorified resume. 

They need help? He’ll give it. 

_ So that others may live. _

  
“Bakhmala?” Natasha -- Nat -- eyes him over the file, an eyebrow raising in curiosity. “I’ve heard of this mission. They couldn’t get anything in with all the RPGs around, but the rest was on a need to know. What’d you use? Stealth ‘chutes?”   
  
Sam notes Steve watching him, probably attempting to size him up, and takes a deep breath. 

_ <Do it.> _

“We used these.” He drops the second file on the table, allowing both of them to get a look at something that -- given the classified nature of the equipment -- was illegal to possess outside Fort Meade. While the file held only the bare minimum, Sam was positive that he knew those wings better than anyone who would pick it up. 

Steve looks up, gaze guarded, “I thought you said you were a _ pilot.” _

“I never said pilot.” Sam can’t stop the small smile from forming at the look of confusion crossing the man’s face, briefly catching Nat’s eye as he folds his arms. 

“Then what would you call yourself, Sam?” The words have the hints of their first conversation, playful among the generally serious context. He has no reason to lie.   
  
So he doesn’t, a grin forming. He just omits. “King of the birds?”   
  
That pulls a smile out of Natasha, albeit briefly, and that’s enough for him.

The two turn, doing that silent communication stint that has Sam briefly checking the perimeter, but it’s Steve’s voice, slightly hopeful, that pulls him back to reality. “So, where can we get one of these things?”  
  
“Fort Meade.” _ Behind three guarded gates and 12-inch steel walls. The last one: kept for a future where the wings may be placed on a new flock of soldiers. _

Yet, as Nat shrugs her shoulders, unperturbed, Sam can’t help but feel that familiar weight settle like a ghost on his back. Welcoming.

Familiar.

_ Right. _

* * *

Fort Meade doesn’t know what hit them, and as Sam leads the two through familiar halls, he can only wonder if it’s always like this. Reckless, full of adrenaline and a need to keep moving.   
  
The room is just as he’d left it, with various discontinued projects that he’d never be privy to; while curiosity could have paused his walk, he keeps his eyes peeled for what was important.

Section F10.   
  
They hadn’t moved the wings. 

His breath catches, gently pulling the pack from the shelf, the grip masking the slight shake in his hands.   
  
< _ Breathe, Sam. _ > Redwing, levels above, presses against the link.   
  
Sam leans back and exhales.   
  
“This the suit?” From the sound of it, Sam notes that he may have been silent for too long.   
  
“It is.” The weight is familiar, despite not being his pack entirely -- his own, decommissioned for parts and analysis, probably exists within the other boxes of Section F10. “Let’s get out of here. I don’t think Sitwell will wait long.”   
  
“He won’t.” Steve, making a face, agrees. “But we just need to get out the information and move on. Insight is set to-”   
  
“We’ll do that, and potentially more.” Nat, however, already makes her way out of the room, a hand waving for the men to follow, which they do. “We have eyes in the sky now, so it’s just separating them from the sheep. Sam?”

  
“Yeah?”   
  
“Can you make a phone call?”

* * *

Said phone call, he discovers, has him waiting patiently with something fruity and refreshing, the smell of someone’s lunch wafting down the street.

  
The bustling may have been a hive for humans in the figurative sense, but the birds knew of it as a hub for free food if not a prime foraging spot. It was not like the parks or the outskirts, shrouded in the familiar foliage and comfort, but the metal struts of cafe chairs and shade from buildings brought only the bravest to nest there, while flocks immediately took advantage of tourist presence for scraps. 

However, the average pigeon's afternoon did not involve being requested to watch one building in particular, unbeknownst to the other humans in the vicinity.

Sam, sitting among other cafe-goers, sips at his drink as he watches the building, with 30 pairs of eyes at his beck and call. 

There was no room for error.

All of this flashes through Sam's mind as the bird he was monitoring ducks under a chair, prompting him to switch to another member of his team.  
His makeshift flock. Tiny, but effective.

By the time Jasper Sitwell makes himself known, he’s ready. 

  


The sky feels like an embrace, and Sam can’t figure out if the tears are from the steady burn behind his eyes, or the steady tugging of his heartstrings.

_ Home. _

<Prey. _ Dive. _ >   
  
Without thought, Sam arches his back, feeling the world spin on his command, and dives with precision, arms pulling the wings close to his sides in imitation of the falcon stoop.   
  
He hears Redwing’s pleased cry around him as he closes his hands along the fabric of his suit, yanking it upwards and forwards with little to no effort. 

  
The pack responds to the smallest of movements, a steady thrum along his back until he lands -- a phantom limb now restored.

He maintains that buzz as they all crowd into his car, noting just how out of sync the engine thrum was to the buzz in his mind, but they’d done something good. 

They’d succeeded so far.  
That was what mattered. 

For all that would happen in the next few seconds, it was a good feeling to have.   
  
< _ Sam! Sam! Human! Human- _ >   
  
Redwing’s sudden call has Sam swerving slightly in shock, unused to the severity of such a message, and in the few seconds of confusion, he finds himself replying aloud. _ “Redwing, please calm-” _   
  
“Redwing?” He doesn’t hear Nat’s voice rise up from behind him, concern hidden among the slight lift in tone, but just as he hears Steve pipe up, Redwing’s mental screams reach their peak.   
  
< _ Sam! Get out of the car! Sam! Sam-> _ _   
_ _   
_By the time he registers the demand, the steering wheel is gone, tossed to the wind. 

_ Shit, as it usually does, starts to hit the fan. _

* * *

SHIELD. HYDRA.   
Both are seemingly interchangeable at this point, and as Sam ducks behind another overturned car to avoid gunfire, he finds himself wondering if he can at least buy everyone a few seconds.

Redwing, high above, briefly catches a glimpse of Steve and mystery man duking it out and seemingly (and concerningly) match each other blow for blow; when he arches, he spots Natasha making her way around the cars, tracking the duo’s path.  
  
She’s hurt. Alarm bells ring.   
  
“ _ Seconds. They need time.” _ _   
_ _   
_ < _ Give them time, then. _>

Hearing another bullet lodge itself into the car, Sam closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. 

He can do that.  
  
The majority of birds have scattered, with those who chose to stay close projecting the equivalent of manic screaming; Sam, harnessing the adrenaline coursing through his veins, channels that mania into something productive.

It feels light in his mind, effortless.   
  
He speaks, letting the voice expand outwards, upwards, and with the confidence of a king, he projects.   
  
_ Dive. _

The birds respond.  
  
Sam feels them before he sees them, their heartbeats creating a haphazard tune to compliment the melody of flapping wings, but when he hears the first shooter give a yell of surprise, he shoots up to take the other out with a well-placed shot. 

The birds scatter without an explicit request, leaving an opening for a clean aim.

The burn thrums, warm.

_ Dive. _

<_ Finally.> _ _   
_ _   
_ Now, Sam _ hears _Redwing before he sees him, but the ear-piercing shriek only seems to grow as the crimson blur gains momentum through the sky, but when he notes the destination, he springs into action. 

The bird connects with a gunman near Nat, talons aiming for their face. The force is enough to unbalance them, shot misfiring, and Sam catches a glimpse of Nat firing a shot before Redwing arches out of range.   
  
< _ I’m staying.> _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Good. _

He goes for his wings, strapping them on in record time before taking to the air. The aerial view immediately shows just how much damage was done, but he ignores it.   
_ Roads can be fixed. People, however, stay dead. _

Which is why, as he dives to kick mystery man, he makes sure it connects. Unfortunately for them, the guy disappears as quickly as he came, leaving a rather distraught Steve in his wake. 

It’s not a good look on him. 

Natasha, despite nursing a bullet wound, pins him to the floor with a stare.   
  
Questioning.   
  
“I can explain-” The words are blunt, but die in his throat soon after, hyper-aware of the gun now pressed to his neck, instincts sparking.   
  
They’re in bad company, after all.

_ For fuck’s sake. _

<_ Stinky featherless creatures.> _

For once, Sam finds himself agreeing.

* * *

Since the universe seems to enjoy being awful, mystery man gains a name, and one that Sam knows must be eating Steve alive. 

That was -- no, _ is _ \-- his best friend, now back from the dead and possibly a husk of his former self. Dangerous. To anyone from the outside, Sam knows they’d opt for the cleaner approach -- _ stopping versus saving _\-- but at the same time, he knows the look in Steve’s gaze as he paces, posture stiff and mind racing. 

He’s seen it the mirror quite often, wondering what life would be like if Riley hadn’t been shot out of the sky.   
  
It’s not a good look for Steve, not at all, and he wishes the world would slow down for just a day.   
  
_ He needs to know he’s not alone. _

_ <I know.> _

  
Furthermore, he’s now sitting in a bunker, feeling out of place among people with a higher clearance level than the clouds.   
  
The tension? Even higher.   
  
But he stands and listens to the back and forth, finding himself engrossed in deciphering who and what he would be dealing with, turning back now was not on his list of choices. However, with any mission, he needs to know what he was doing.

People would die if he didn’t, after all, and he’d pull the heavens down before he accepted defeat.  
  
Natasha’s voice brings him back to earth, pointed. “The perch in your house, Sam. That was you.”   
  
He turns, meeting a sure gaze, unwavering; he briefly notes the eyes on him, even if he doesn’t turn to meet their gazes.   
  
“It was me, yeah.”   
  
“And where is it now? Flying above?” 

<_Red Human. Smart._> It didn’t take long for Redwing to chime in, seemingly pleased.   
  
_Her name is Natasha.__  
__  
__<Nat Human. Natasha Human.>_  
  
“He’s up there. He says hi.”  
  
<_Lie._ _I didn’t say hello! Now I am saying hello, Samuel.>_

Nat seems to mull over the words for a moment, jaw working ever so slightly, before she nods, satisfied. “And you weren’t going to tell us, I guess?”  
  
Steve, bless his soul, cuts in with a confused hum, causing Sam to glance over in concern. “Who?” The puppy look was back, brows furrowed, and Sam stops the smile from forming as he notes it.   
  
“Redwing. My falcon. He says hello.”   
  
_ <You wanted to smile.> _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Fuck off. _

“...You hear him from here?” Steve’s lip twitches, shock briefly falling along his gaze.   
  
“Yeah, I do.” He crosses his arms. “I, well, hear them all.”

“I see.”  
  
Sam finds nothing else behind that gaze for a few moments, chest tightening when he starts to expect the worst, but somehow, the universe gives him something good. 

Steve smiles, lopsided, and folds his arms, immediately allowing Sam to pump some air into his lungs.   
  
When Steve speaks, however, it’s even more refreshing, pulling a full smile onto his features. “Oh, so that’s how it is?”   
  
His heart leaps. 

<_ Breathe, Samuel.> _

_ Redwing, I swear- _

“When we’re done with this, you can meet him, alright?”  
  
_ When. We’re going to win. We have to. _ _   
_ _   
_ Three chips for three hellicarriers, with a corrupt organization between them.   
  
The odds? Against them. Brutally so.   
  
However, there was no chance of success if the action wasn’t taken, and someone had to do it.   
They can’t turn their backs, not on this.

These things they did, that others may live.


	2. Chapter 2

If there was one thing that was going right, then it had to be the times when food was anything but a slightly stale muffin from a gas station, paired with the beautiful taste of whatever juice they had in the fridge. It may not have been some home-grown, 100% classy concoction from the various markets in DC, but it was better than nothing.  
  
Besides, as much as Sam knows he could ignore Steve downing a few bottles of Redbull in succession, there was only so much he could take before his mother’s phantom voice begs him to cook something _ healthy. _  
  
For the last three months, however, healthy was relative, nestling between uncomfortable beds and equally uncomfortable car seats, swapping between cities and small towns alike.  
  
Barnes hadn’t been seen in a week, allowing them a brief period of rest before another lead slid onto their radar from Natasha, but after the last lead resulted in uncovering a small Hydra bunker with a bunch of not-friends inside, adrenaline still pulsing through their brains.  
  
_ Adrenaline? Hah. _

Steve, for the life of him, surely knew how to get his heart racing, especially when said heart had to watch the man launch off a cliff with little warning, letting two robotic sentries plummet whilst he secures his hand around an outstretched one.  
  
It’s become commonplace at that stage.

Steve jumps.  
Sam follows.  
They fly.  
  
“You’re thinking too loud.” Steve’s voice comes through the window of their car-for-the-week, followed by the man himself folding into the passenger seat, food in hand. From the look of it, the sandwiches look quite fresh. _ Hallelujah _. 

“Well, someone’s got to think for the both of us.” Sam smiles, turning away to avoid any odd expressions, but the light nudge shows it was seen anyway. “I wasn’t the one running headfirst into some bunker.”  
  
“No, but I’m talking to the man who landed on the roof without seeing an agent on it. Don’t you have a bird’s eye-view, Samuel?” The retort was light, teasing, and Sam turns back to roll his eyes in full view.  
  
“Redwing was with you, Steven, so I was busy watching you.”  
  
He wants to be mad at the newly found stress in his life - the steady need to _ protect _ flowing back into his veins - but then Steve _ smiles _ and it all seems worth it. The dives have purpose, something that had been waning after Riley fell. _ I got your back. _

He wanted that. 

“I know you were...Thank you.”  
  
They stare, caught in the universe of their own making, and Sam smiles back, head ducking. “Anytime, man. Really.”  
  
The air in the car feels heavier as they drive off, beat-up radio crooning out some Lionel Ritchie as they hit the lonely freeway.  
  
They speak quite a bit on their drive to the next motel, usually consisting of Steve wondering who is singing on the radio, with Sam chiming in whenever he recognized the voice. On occasion, a song peaks Sam’s attention as well, causing him to hum along with a small smile on his face; once Steve gets the melody, he joins in.  
  
They’re tired, if not nursing wounds that still itch and throb, but they’re alive.  
_ They’ll be fine. _  


Somewhere along the route, Sam catches Steve’s eye as he checks the side-view mirror often, noting his fingers tapping against his thigh. Steve's silently mouthing along to Sinatra. 

_ Fly me to the moon _

_ Let me play among the stars _

_ Let me see what spring is like on _

_ A-Jupiter and Mars… _

<_ No song for you? America human does not know how to court- _ >  
  
Redwing’s confused chitter gets Sam to look away, heat spiking up behind his ears. 

Steve, seemingly oblivious, continues his little humming sessions as before, letting the occasional mutter slip when the song was easy to read. 

The car continues to swirl with heavy air.

The motel isn’t anything the haven’t seen in their travels, pairing well with the middle-of-nowhere vibe, exterior walls lined with dust, windows needing a wipe-down. The neon sign in front buzzes as a haphazard welcome, but by the look of it, they seem to be alone for the stay.  
  
The receptionist -- _ “Call me Tina.” -- _ confirms that as she eyes Sam up, briefly glancing behind him to see Steve bent over as he searches in the trunk. “You boys on your way down to Dallas?”  
  
“Yeah. Going to see my friend’s cousin. She has a wedding this summer.” He nods politely, taking the keys from her outstretched hand.  
  
She continues to eye them both, as if seeing something they haven’t; Sam can only hope Steve’s shoulder-to-waist ratio isn’t universally known.

Whatever it is, it does not bother her enough. “...How nice of you. Breakfast is served from seven to ten, but since y’all seem to be the only ones around, just come down at let me know. Get some rest, boys.”  
  
“That’s very kind of you, ma’am.”  
  
< _ Lonely. She should get a bird. _ >  
  
_ Maybe, Red. Maybe. _

Tina leaves to the backroom just as Steve pops his head up, prompting him to sprint up the stairs and avoid any potential contact. Sure, the slight stubble on his jaw had helped the occasional run-in with fans, especially when he looked as ragged as he felt, but they did not want to risk him having to open his mouth. 

Sam hid a laugh behind a hand, however, when Steve almost trips on the last step, which only gets him a mock glare in return.  
  
The snickers continue until they reach their room for the next two nights, barren except for the usual essentials. Their view faces inwards, showing a pool overflowing with chlorine, which Steve notes with a small wrinkle of his nose. 

It’s cute, like a bunny, and Sam calls him out on it with a small snort.  
  
Steve waves a hand, amused, and immediately dives onto the nearest bed, arms spread out with a sigh. “I’m just going to lie here for a bit...Comfy.”

He looks comfortable.  
  
“If you say so; I’m taking all the hot water.” Since Steve is currently face down, Sam took his time doing one last assessment, before grabbing his duffel bag and going to the bathroom. A warm shower would at least help with the crick in his neck.

_ And maybe _ stop thinking about his ass. _ Maybe. _

As the shower starts running, Sam swears he hears a shift within the main room; Steve must have gotten up.  
  
However, he ignores the movements outside once he steps under the spray, shoulders relaxing under the warmth. When he shifts, the bruises peppering his sides sting slightly, but he focuses on the pleasant heat along his spine, tingling along scars from missions past. Some, having faded into small lines, hail from all the bumps and scrapes whilst on tour.  
  
Battle scars, forged from hard work for those he strived to protect.  
  
_ I got your back. _

Steve’s one of them now, winging into the nest of his thoughts like he’d always been there. _ It’s scary to think about _ , Sam thinks, eyes briefly darting to the door, _ but I want to think about it. _  
  
Yet, as he pushes the thoughts away, more seem to invade, manifesting in the form of a crooked smile, sun-kissed cheeks and eyes that shouldn’t look so alive...Because they aren’t. _ I didn’t have your back. _  


_ He deserves better- _

A blazing ball of light travels towards the ground in the recesses of his mind, silent, and static starts to bleed in from recesses he thought he’d have under control. The phantom scream, sounding way too close but impossibly far away, has Sam gripping the railing on the shower with a small whine, eyes closing as if the sight of it all is right in front of him.  
  
He breathes out, and he tastes sand on his tongue, coarse.

  
_ He deserves better. He deserves better. He- _

“Sam?”

Steve’s voice rises in from just outside the door, muffled by the water now in his ears, but Sam finds himself pushing his thoughts down with the mere thought of being caught like he was. “Yeah? Coming out soon.”  
  
His voice manages to stifle the waver, but he hears Steve’s concern still bleed through his reply. _ Fuck. _“Just...er- making sure you’re alright in there.” The words were sincere, if not tentative, sparking the need for his heart to do multiple flips. 

_ He deserved better. _  
  
_ <And you’re not that ‘better’, Samuel?> _  
  
He stops the shower with the same intensity that he closes the link, wiping himself down with his towel before wrapping it around his waist. As he exits the bathroom, however, he is surprised to see that Steve has _ showered as well, _ currently using another towel to dry his hair.  
  
_ How long was I in for-? _  
  
Steve turns, a small smile on his face, but his eyes tell another story. “Tina said I could use the next room’s shower. Left the key.” He pauses to gesture at the item in question, expression turning sheepish. “I’ll take it back tomorrow.”  
  
A stray droplet of water travels down the side of his neck, and Sam hopes his gaze hides the fact that he’s watching it fall.  
  
“That’s good.” He nods, reply seemingly steady as he moves to his own bed, finally breaking eye-contact to search for something to wear. “When did she come over?”

“About twenty minutes ago.”  
  
Sam freezes slightly, before going back to his search. _ Fuck. _ “That’s nice of her. She also said that we’re free to ask her about...”  
  
“Breakfast tomorrow.” Sam hears Steve sit down on the bed, but he didn’t expect it to be his own; somewhere between his reply and the sound, he’d gone silent. 

Steve’s gaze is unavoidable now, frown having settled deep in his expression.  
  
_ Sammy...what’s wrong? _

“Sam, you’re bottling something up.” Steve’s murmur is soft enough to be missed, but Sam hears it loud and clear. “I don’t want to pry -- and I won’t if you don’t want to -- but I want to help any way I can.”  
  
_ I’m fine. _

“I just...Thought a bit too hard. It’s fine.” The thought, however, gets pushed to the side as Sam sits down on the other side of the duffle bag, having procured a shirt to wear and some comfy boxers. Steve’s jaw works as he puts on the former, but then his eyes dart away as he puts on the latter. “Just thought of something.”  
  
“Well, then maybe you shouldn’t.” The reply is curt, yet seemingly holding more layers than anything he’d ever heard out of the man’s mouth. “But maybe I just...act too much.”  
  
“Isn’t necessarily a bad thing, man.” Sam feels heat rise in his cheeks, briefly glancing over.

"It is when I don't act when I want to, and it's frustrating." Now, Sam knew that tone anywhere, be it hidden under a small chuckle or completely out in the open, so when he looks up and meets Steve's gaze to read what emotion paired with it, he sees something he doesn't expect.

Steve's baby blues are focused, but swirling with a hesitation that has his own heart skipping multiple beats. 

"So you're thinking about it…" He swallows slowly, watching the other's eyes flicker down to his lips as he talks. _ Oh my god- _

Steve seems to flush at the statement, a slight red settling along his cheeks, but after what felt like years of silence, he nods once, then twice with more feeling as if more confident. "Yeah...Yeah, I am." 

Sam doesn't remember who leaned over first, but he does note the hand resting tentatively in his lap as lips meet his own, a small gasp leaving both of their mouths at the sensation. 

Steve smells like soap -- something citrusy, lemongrass -- and Sam breathes in the smell as they attempt to get closer, his hand having risen to run his fingertips along the stubble on Steve's chin. 

His heart, contrary to popular belief, continues beating, but his mind?

That swells, warm.

"Is this okay?" He hears Steve's sigh as they break apart briefly, foreheads touching as the warmth of his exhale tickles his nose. 

Steve smiles, and he finds himself smiling back, heart soaring. _ Yes yes yes yes- _ "Yeah..." 

They meet each other in the middle, surer, and Sam feels himself almost hum at the contact as Steve rests a hand on his lower back. 

He ducks his head, placing kisses along his jaw. 

"Sam." The soft gasp trails off into a whimper, causing another thrum of warmth as Steve tilts his head, and Sam takes advantage of that as he travels downwards, following the path of a water droplet long gone with his teeth. Hands, eager to explore, place themselves along his chest, feeling the steady shudder of short breaths.

Steve lets out a whine, low pitched, when he nibbles at the base of his neck, and before Sam knows it, he's being _ lifted _into a kiss once more, with Steve's hands placing themselves squarely under his thighs. 

"Steve-"

"I got you." As if reading Sam's mind, Steve echoes a line said back and forth far too many times not to have meaning, followed by a set of kisses along the jaw for himself. On the last kiss, he lets teeth scrape along in a long arc, before running over it with his tongue. The sheer sensation has Sam utterly aware of the warmth starting to pool within his boxers, and the hands brutally close to it. 

He wriggles in the hold, managing to swing a leg over and straddle the other, hands rising to cradle his head in his hands. As a result, Steve slowly lowers Sam into his lap as they start kissing once more, leaving his hands to roam over and then under Sam's shirt, eliciting a moan from them both. 

Steve runs a bit hot, and Sam arches his back into the touch. "You're killing me here, man." He's still aware of his surroundings, slightly tipsy in the way their tongues alternate exploring the other's mouth, but the moment he feels Steve under him, filling up because of _ him, _he makes a noise in the back of his throat. "Are we doing this?"

_ Are we doing this? _

_ I need to know. _

_ I need to- _

Steve's answer comes with a hand brushing along the front of Sam's boxers, fingertips tracing the line of his dick before playing with the waistband. The motion pulls a stuttered gasp out of Sam, which gives Steve enough time to tilt his head under Sam's jaw, returning the favor from moments before.

"If you'll have me, I'll have all of you. Without question." 

_ Yes yes yes yes yes- _

That seems to lift the chains as they shudder, and Sam chokes out a wordless sob as he fumbles to find the waistband of Steve's own boxers, bypassing them to grip along the warmth of his cock. The hard line of flesh has him seeing stars for a few moments, but once he lets go to assess the situation, leans back to watch Steve with lidded eyes.

By the looks of it, Steve isn't fairing any different, pupils blown under the soft light on the nightstand. 

"We...we need lube." Sam's request has him abandoning his post to find his duffle bag which, in their haste, had been pushed onto the floor. Luckily for him, however, his small bottle of lube was easy to find, having spawned from a need to treat himself once in a while. 

As he turns, however, the sight that greets him brings forth a startled groan, especially as he watches Steve take those long fingers into his mouth, gaze firmly set on his own. 

His cock twitches as Steve slowly pulls out his fingers, now slick with his own saliva. "I couldn't wait." 

"I see that." Sam, staring intently at the slick hand, returns to his position with a small smile, making sure that the cap snaps open loudly, as well as the lube leaving the tube. He, however, breaks eye contact to take Steve's bottom lip in his teeth, loving the sigh he gets in return. 

"I've wanted to do this for so long." Steve's hand enters the inside of Sam's boxers and wraps around the head of his cock with purpose, before stroking with a surety that has Sam biting down in shock. Steve, however, merely makes a chittery sort of sound, bucking upwards and continuing to stroke his hand. "Didn't know what to do."

"Is that…how it is?" With Sam's own hand lubed up, he reciprocates by tugging Steve's boxers enough for his cock to stand out proud, curling his hand for his own set of strokes. He can almost imagine having it inside him, which only made him groan at the thought. _ Later. _"Thinking."

"Hah." Steve bucks up when he thumbs at the head, smearing precum over his fingers and making the sound slicker. "Wanted to wait. Not gonna last long."

They were both breathing hard, and as Sam felt Steve's other hand slowly creep towards his balls, he leaned forward to seal their lips together once more. 

They didn't have to wait, not anymore, and he echoes the thoughts aloud as he increases his pace, crooning. "It's okay. I got you."

"I got you." Steve responds with his own sigh; a promise, full of heart. 

_ I love you. _

They're both taut, thighs twitching as their orgasms creep up on them, and as Sam finds himself at the brink, he dives without fear, feeling the universe bend to accommodate his fall with a small grunt of euphoria. Steve, bucking a while longer as well, joins him with a louder whine, riding through his high with the same intensity as before, cum spilling all over Sam's hand, warm. 

It doesn't take long for the two to return to each other's lips, tasting each other as the night draws in. They're on edge, nerves heightened through the sheer joy of just _ existing _ together, that Sam hears himself say _ I love you _with no fear, receiving an ecstatic reply in the form of those arms wrapping around him.

_ I love you too _ comes with a kiss along the shell of his ear, then along his collarbone, and by the time the two find themselves drifting, _ I love you _is written along skin like a hidden tattoo, left for their eyes to marvel.

The birds chirp loudly when they wake, content.

* * *

_ How does one hunt someone who doesn’t want to be found? _  
_  
_As the burner phone buzzes within Sam’s pocket, signaling that yet another tip-off awaits him, he can’t think of many answers. With Steve off avenging, he finds himself bouncing from country to country in hopes of spotting Barnes, which doesn’t seem to be happening anytime soon. 

At this stage, he can only call it the world’s prettiest game of Where’s Waldo, since he’s seen far too many sights in the last few months.  
  
Currently, the chilly air of Sweden flows within his being, spilling high into the sky whenever he exhales. He’d been warned that there may be a bit of cold once he touched down, but this was _ ridiculous. _  
_  
_<Natasha Human said you should stay warm. It’s cold.> 

Redwing, seemingly used to warmer weather, seems to agree wholeheartedly from above. His chitters continue through the dawn as they travel down the forest path. The small town nearby had mentioned hearing some grumbling in the woods, with one child recounting the ‘scary man’ with the minimal English she had learned. 

For one, it was one of the more blissfully solid leads in weeks, even if it meant trekking out with snow getting into his damn boots. 

_ I’m staying warm, Red. Are you good up there? _

He feels the bird beat his wings, rising a few meters in altitude and riding the wind. _ <I am okay. We might need more eyes. Birds who live in this territory. I am the better falcon, but I do not know these cold lands.> _  
  
_ Sweden. _  
  
_ <Sweden Lands.> _  
_  
_Sam huffs, watching the mist he produced with amusement, before shaking his head. I can barely keep this link up. I’m tired as hell.

<_ Then rest. Stay warm.> _

_ And risk losing this lead? _ His foot kicks at a nearby stone, sending it skittering across the snow. _ We’ll be fine. I’m going under; keep watch for me? _

It takes a while, but Sam catches a tint of red before the reply sounds; Redwing must have opted to fly lower, if the waves of concern were anything to go by. _ <I always do, Samuel.> _  
The words, however, wrap around him like a fond embrace.  
  
I know you do, Red. 

With that said, Sam stops walking, head tipping upwards to scan the sky. It’s quiet, emulating the usual feeling of a forest’s winter months, but he still stares upwards. The quiet ones, Sam had found, usually took the most focus. 

The cities and towns of the world spoiled him for choice when it came to the birds; they swarmed and flocked and _ lived _ in giant units, pressing against his links with a need to be social. To anyone else, the sheer _ numbers _would startle anyone who could hear them -- a sea of voices that never seems to pause -- but after living among that for so long, the forest feels worse.

_ Too big. Too little birds. Too big - _

_ <Breathe in. Breathe out.> _  
  
Sam breathes, and searches.

It takes a while before the flex of his link starts separating into smaller connections, fragile thoughts seeping through like unclosed faucets. The steady trickle soon takes shape in words, ranging from idle conversation to unknown syllables, but they all sound the same.

The burn stays pleasant, underworked in numbers, straining in range 

_ Help me. _ He breathes in, pushing the thought across whichever links hold, and immediately latches onto those that react; the slurry of responses range in their usual emotions, but Sam holds his ground. _ I’m looking a human. _

Redwing’s link, the obviously stronger one of them all, chides in with the bird-equivalent of a scoff. <_ Long head fur. Eyes, blue. Raccoon Human.> _

_ Have you seen him? _He hears the jays and the tits get skittish, not used to spotting humans so deep within the forest. He feels the wings of a proud buzzard dismissing the call, mistrust rolling of its feathers and right under his skin. The wildfowl, confused, dismiss the call with little response. 

Yet, as he pushes deeper within the forest, stretching and connecting and _ pleading _for help, he hears a voice. Proud, yet skeptical, it slinks back along an untested line, which Sam traces back with interest. 

The burn behind his eyes thrums to life once he does so. 

_ <Another human in territory. I do not like this...since you can know what I say.> _

It’s huge, with a strong heartbeat to count, just out of sync with his own. As it stretches, Sam feels the muscles in his back relax as well, yet the phantom feeling of wings flitters through. The makings of a raptor through and through: the golden eagle, resident king of the sky.

He acts polite; raptors, he finds, are as finicky as any royalty stereotype. _ If you can help me find the human, I shall attempt to get him off your territory. _  


_ <So you can replace it, human? Your kind can thrive in this weather, but with that, you bring flame and sharp and pain. Not in my territory.> _ The bird beats its wings, and Sam winces at the sensation along his back. The brief lapse does not go unnoticed by the bird. _ <Yet you have respect, human. What brings you to hunt the other?> _  
_  
_He needs to come home. A flock-mate is looking for him. 

_ <I see. They are important, from nest-feathers to fly-feathers.> _ The reply seems impressed, which ensures that Sam can stay truthful, briefly opening an eye to check his surroundings. Tree-tops greet him for that small window of time, as well as the sounds of nearby hatchlings.  
  
Parents. The eagle is merely protecting the young ones. 

Sam finds himself smiling.

_ No harm shall come to your young ones. _

_ <Do not make a promise that nature can destroy, human, but thank you. I shall find your Raccoon Human.> _

Sam senses the bird tense, before wings almost as long as his own arms propel it into the air with little hassle. It moves with a purpose, climbing altitude with confidence, but once the eagle levels, Sam exhales.  
  
He exhales, opens his eyes, and the links drop back to two. _ Thank you. _

_ <Stay Warm, Human.> _

He starts walking once the visions of treetops stop overtaking the path ahead of him, shoulders hunching to combat the cold. 

* * *

Sam doesn’t get close enough before the man bolts again, but it’s the first time in the months since he’s gotten a clear visual on him.  
  
Granted, said visual comes from 13 pounds flying at some random attacker, but it still counts. The eagle did not seem to be amused that _ three _humans had entered its territory, but the sheer pride it felt after knocking over at least one of them made it less annoyed by the situation. 

For Sam, however, he could consider the trip a partial success.  
  
_ <He must have gone south. If you wish to follow, head back to the human nests and go faster.> _ The eagle’s thoughts ping through rapidly, link sturdy, and Sam feels proud that he’s kept it for so long. < _ I wish you luck, Human. May the winds stay on course. _>

The bird tips its head. Sam feels it and projects a nod right back. 

The search continues.

_ May your young ones have happy hunting, friend. _

The bond splinters, a soothing sensation, as he turns back north. 

* * *

  
“Huh?”

It takes too narrow misses for Sam to assume he has a pattern of movement, but instead of finding Steve’s friend within a small apartment in São Paulo, he finds a note scribbled down on the back of a napkin.

**Don’t follow me. **

Almost instantly, Sam spreads out to latch onto whatever bird resides in the area, wincing at the slight sensory overload. If Barnes _ knew _he was there, there was no shame in being prepared. Yet, as he flickers through sight and sound, he spots nothing of note. 

_ <Gone, Samuel.> _  
_  
_I know.

“So we’re doing this, huh?” He wrinkles his nose at the note as he rolls his eyes, briefly scanning the room with his own eyes. Once he spots a pen on the bedside table, he scoops it up with a huff, turning the napkin around with interest. 

It was a longshot, but a shot nonetheless.  
  
If Barnes was to come back, he’d have his reply written in bold, anyway.

**Then stop moving away.**

He continues his search, vigilant, and watches.

His watch sends him winding along the Brazillian coast, briefly moving inland when he feels Redwing itch to visit the rainforest. Together, they share eyes for the afternoon, soaring over stretches of trees Sam had only dreamed to see. 

A flock of macaws recall Bucky near the Bolivian border, and pigeons spin tales of similar men along the airwaves, zigzagging across the continent. 

Sam follows.

The notes start to pile up.  
  
**You’re easy to follow. **

The note finds him stateside, Chicago smog laying low on the city. Sam swears he catches a glimpse of Barnes a few blocks down, but the pigeon seems more interested in a recently dropped crumb. 

**Good to know. Hope you’re eating. Grab a pizza. **

He keeps moving, going west, then east.

Barnes’ next few notes seem to ignore the topic entirely, ranging between the usual pleas to stop the search, but once Sam finds himself back in New York for a few days, he gets a flurry of activity for an hour and a half.  
  
The pigeons lead him to Central Park, and the note stuffed into a nearby tree is paired with a receipt: Pizza, but the plainest thing alive.  
**I’ve eaten. Go home, bird. **

_ Huh. _

**No thanks. You’re stuck with me. Stay safe. Drink some water. **It doesn’t take long for another note to be written - this time on the back of the receipt - which is left to be guarded by a small group of swans. 

It takes five days for the note to get taken, but two weeks for another tip to surface. 

And so he follows, hitting Marbella ( **You didn’t reply to my note. Stay safe.** ), Dublin (  **He doesn’t know about the notes.** ) and Marrakesh ( **Did I write something wrong?**) in quick succession. Barnes doesn’t seem to be slowing down any time soon, and by the haphazard journey route, he’s attempting to shake him. 

Yet, it’s a lost cause; millions of eyes start to hold steady when connecting to a traveling mind. 

Sam follows.

He finds the words  **You don’t have to be here ** on the roof as he checks into a motel, the paper held down by a broken brick. The handwriting is hasty in application, as if Barnes was shaking and wanted to minimize the damage, but the words are legible. 

Redwing, landing lightly on his shoulder, makes a noise of confusion. _ <Raccoon Human won’t come home?> _

_ He’s not sure if a home will welcome him, Red. _

Sam stares at the note, feeling the impossible weight it has in his palm, and turns it around. 

_ But we’re going to try. _

* * *

By the time he’s seemingly settled, the autumn hues of Rome are peaceful on the eye of bird and man alike, which Redwing notes as they stroll around the city outskirts.  
He also notes that he’s hungry, but that is a normal occurrence.  
  
_ You ate this morning. _

_ <One sparrow. A small one. Snack.> _

_ It’s not like I can stop you. _

_ <I do not tell you to stop eating small things. Like the small drinks in...tin? Tin.> _ Sam makes sure to project his eye-roll through the link, but Redwing continues, unphased. _ <I do not say ‘Samuel, get bigger drink.’ do I? No, because it is not necessary and humans make the awful things nec-> _  
_  
_You’re doing this on purpose now. 

A pause. _ <Stop laughing. You may be quiet but I can hear it.> _

_ Just go get your dinner, Redwing. I’ll be here. _

So he leaves, leaving Sam to his own devices. The Rome weather had not yet gotten awful if it ever reached such stages, so he basks in it.  
Content.

What he doesn't expect, however, is Redwing to slam into the temporary barrier between their link only a few minutes later, urgent. 

Sam slides into the connection almost immediately after he registers the push, halting his movement as he's yanked into whatever Redwing sees. Usually, the bird would ease him into it, but the rush almost makes him stumble back, disorientated. 

He sees birds, lots of them; the numbers seemed to blanket the ground below, twisting and turning in a pattern he had yet to understand. 

Hundreds, if not thousands, fly below. 

_ Sparrows? _

_ <Food, yes.> _Redwing seems annoyed by the obvious being stated, but as he glides away from the group, Sam spots something just beyond the sparrow group, sitting atop a small hill. 

His heart drops. 

_ <Raccoon Human.> _

Barnes is nearby, and by the look of it, Sam guesses he isn't bolting just yet. 

Hopefully. 

So he starts walking, steps increasing in speed once he spots the small stretch of unused land. The hill, he imagines, is just beyond the line of trees. 

Hidden. 

_ Is he still there, Red? _

_ <Yes. Watching the food. Me, maybe.> _

_ You? _

_ <Yes, me. I am a handsome bird.> _ If it were possible for a bird to scoff, he was sure that was Redwing's intention. _ <Careful.> _

Careful. 

The word has Sam pausing just as he reaches the treeline, heartbeat speeding up ever so slightly.

Was this it?

The last time he saw Barnes, he'd ripped his wings off the suit and then kicked out, sending Sam tumbling to his death. It was a fall he hadn't expected, but he'd survived a gruesome splat on concrete. _ Barely. _

Yet, he didn't want to think of Steve, silent in that hospital, but at the same time, Steve could have drowned before he even reached that bed.

_ Sam, it was him. I know it. _ Steve's words, impossibly earnest among more anesthesia than most, echo. _ It's him. _

He has to be careful. 

But, he has to try.

So Sam goes slow, making his presence known before he slips into sight; the crackling leaves under his feet have his heartbeat spiking, but he ignores it.

Calm. He needs _ calm _.

He kept on walking, and catches sight of Barnes the moment he sees the hill. 

The birds, high above, chatter wildly. 

While the former of the two seemed to be transfixed on the display above him, legs splayed out and head tilted up, Sam doesn't blame him much. They're beautiful, after all, twisting and turning like an uncontained lava-lamp, hundreds of dots working in synchronous harmony. 

Their voices sing to him: a million sounds sharing news, spilling secrets. 

Learning.

As he watches, he spots the anomaly quite quickly, tearing through the tube-like flying with deadly intent, only to move back into the air, fruitless. 

He feels Redwing's frustration spike, and gently pushes it back. 

He'll be fine.

_ <Raccoon Human.> _The falcon's pointed reminder has Sam looking back at Barnes with interest, noting that the man has looked down. He doesn't look up, but Sam knows he's listening. 

His shoulders tense once he gets close enough, gloved hands closed into fists. 

“Tried Pizza in Rome?” 

Barnes doesn't look up when he sits, leaving a gap between them, but once Sam settles, he lets out a grumble from behind his hair. "You didn't have to follow me." 

_ Straight to the point. _Sam sighs, shaking his head. He didn't back down in his letters, so he would not do that now, even if his heart was lodged in his throat. The reply is almost instant. "But I did, and now we're here." 

"...Now we're here." His shoulders tense even further, but his voice is clearer. Tired. "I'm sorry...The wings."

_ Falling. _

Sam pushes the sensation away, stubborn. He swallows. "It wasn't you, man." _ It wasn't. _"It wasn't you."

"But I did it." The words carry an impossible amount of emotion, as if he spent every waking moment accepting them. Sam wouldn’t blame him. "It was my hands that did it. I can't--" Barnes shivers, a fluid sort of moment. "Can't remember a lot of them. But it was me." 

Redwing caws above, missing yet another mark.

"Then we work on it, finding yourself again." Sam can't help but offer a small suggestion, eyes flickering back to the murmuration. "Take our time. Don't have to do anything more than what you want."

The words cause him to shiver again, and Sam notes how his hands closed into shaking fists.

"I want--" The words seem to get stuck in his throat, producing a small whine that has Sam's heart dropping in sympathy. "I don't want to hurt anyone. Not anymore. Not ever." 

He pauses. 

"Can't trust myself not to do that."

Sam thinks back to Steve in the hospital bed, beaten and bruised prior to serum kicking into gear. "It was you who dragged him out, Barnes." His reply is soft. "You did that."

"He'd said he knew me." His whisper sounds unsure, feeble. "He does."

"Which is why we hauled ass to come find you--"

"You don't know me." Sam looks back at Barnes and spots blue eyes behind the curtain of matted hair, searching. Confused. "He's not here right now." 

The silence is combated with birdsong, but it seems like white noise as they stare. 

Barnes looks away. "Why?"

"Why not?" 

"I threw you off a helicarrier. Think I did things before that but--" A hand, shaking, gestures. "Remember. I can’t remember. It's fuzzy and it hurts." 

_ <The car.> _

_ Yeah, Red, the car. _

"Then let us help you help yourself." Sam doesn't know _ what _decides that shuffling closer is a safe idea, but he does so, and Barnes seems fine with it.

_ <Careful, Samuel.> _

He pushes ever so slightly, keeping his voice level. "What do remember, then? It's fine...take it slow." 

It seems to take a large amount of energy for the other to straighten himself, a hand rising to brush the hair out of his face, but he pushes himself to stay there, slightly slouched. "I...I remember the bird. The red one. It looked red." 

Barnes seems to look up as he says that, trying to spot Redwing among the blanket of sparrows. "Yours?"

"...Mine, yeah." 

"Yours. You speak to him. I've seen it." That seems to bring the smallest of smiles to his face, soft, and Sam can't help but note how it suits him. He isn't ready for the sound, but Barnes' chuckle follows soon after. "Isn't doing too well up there."

<_ Come up here and show me how it's done, Raccoon Human! Humph! You can't...wingless!> _

Redwing dives again, and misses, screeching in anger.

"It's the sparrows...Safety in numbers." Sam finds himself smiling at the main group above, briefly linking between groups. "They fly in groups to keep warm, to share news, to ward of predators."

"Safety in numbers." The explanation pulls a nod out of Barnes, content with the words. "They help each other stay safe."

"Yeah. Their world needs numbers_. They thrive in numbers."_

Barnes looks over again, gaze still as searching as before, but with something else etched into his irises. Sam can't place it. "And when it's over? Where do they go?" 

_ They don't all fly together. _

"They leave in smaller groups. Family, friends, mates...They'll still have company." He shrugs his shoulders, "They'll have someone, that's for sure, and maybe they'll all meet again somewhere else, if the winds dictate it." 

"Maybe they will." The reply is barely a whisper, but Sam catches it as they sit, watching the birds fill the afternoon sky. 

"Maybe, Barnes...Maybe." 

They sit in silence, in a new sort of company, as time shifts the sky to dusk, stars starting to peek out from the heavens, looking brighter without the city lights to compete with them. The trees, rustling, block the cold wind starting to settle. 

Night creeps in without much of a flourish.

It is then, and only then that birds start to break, fragmented in their patterns as farewells thrum, content.

Redwing finally catches his meal, landing nearby. 

He eats in silence. 

"...I should talk to him." The time seems to have dragged on for so long that Barnes' voice causes Sam to flinch. 

"If that makes you happy." He thinks back to Steve hunched over a map, marking off places they'd been, revising tip-offs, dead ends and everything between, oftentimes pausing to stare at the ceiling, eyes wet with tears. "Nobody is forcing you."

_ What if he doesn't come back, Sam? _ He'd mumble, an ear pressed to his chest to listen to a heartbeat that was not his own. _ What if he's avoiding me...I just need to know. _

"I...I want to do it." The words are shaky, but the delivery still feels sure. 

"Now?" He offers, searching the other's expression for doubt.

Barnes breathes in, holding the motion, before exhaling. 

He extends what Sam remembers as his flesh arm, shaking, as if searching for a lifeline. "Please."

He meets him halfway.  


* * *

It was one thing watching _ one _ skittish supersoldier, but _ two _ was starting to push it, as seen by the way Steve and Barnes -- Bucky -- seemed to dance around each other like two elephants in a glass warehouse. 

Their first meeting had been tentative at best, with Steve looking like he was ready to burst into tears and fighting vibranium chains to step forward, while Bucky looked exactly how he probably felt, unsure and impossibly weary. 

Yet Sam had stayed, making sure they both didn't break anything in the process (as the place was technically not abandoned). 

It had taken a lot of convincing to even get Bucky on a jet back home, which Steve recalls whenever he manages to tug Sam to bed, sharing his body warmth under the sheets; yet, they did it, and that mattered the most.

Bucky, however, sticks to himself more often than not, holing up in his given room within the compound, barely seen by the other avengers.

The new avengers, which Sam _still _can't believe he's apart of. It almost feels surreal when he sees a package arrive from Tony Stark himself, detailing that he should _avoid losing the wings on these, if possible_ and to _have fun with it._

They work like a charm, and he pushes them to their limits whenever he can.

If anything, he'll take Vision's light critique over Wanda's disappointed frown when he pulls up too recklessly from a dive.

_ <Flock. New flock.> _ Redwing never ceases to remind him. < _ Together.> _

_ Together. _

That's what matters. 

They'll work on it together, and do amazing things. He knows it, and he makes sure to say it whenever he can. 

_ There's always room to be something greater. Sometimes it takes time. _

Sometimes it doesn't.

It's with such a mantra that Sam is surprised to see Bucky sitting at the kitchen counter early one morning, a bowl of fruit being polished off as he eats away at a banana. 

Nobody is awake, with Vision probably being the only exception, so Sam makes his presence known with a soft cough as he approaches, noting the stare he receives in return.

When he gets close enough, he notes the bags under the other's blue eyes. He hadn't been sleeping, that's for sure, and the rugged look is far more prominent as he moves closer. 

He's breathing hard, as if forcing himself to calm down.

"Is there an apple in there?" Sam, however, ignores addressing the issue straight on, sitting at a barstool at the kitchen island. "The red ones. Sweet." 

Bucky seems to pause, looking down at the bowl, before grabbing an apple and lobbing it over in silence.

"Thanks." 

That gets a shaky smile out of him, which Sam returns.

Sam takes a bite, then another, and that seems to calm Bucky enough to continue eating as well, relishing the silence while they can.

Bucky, however, is surprisingly the one who breaks the silence. "Can't sleep." 

"Remembering?" Sam isn't sure if he meant it as a question or a statement, but he reads it as the former. 

"Yeah. I can...Hear them. Feel-" He breaks off, as if the words would launch him off the edge, before he calms once more. "Scared. Don't like being alone." 

_ You saw the notes Sam. They'd kept him isolated. _

"You don't have to be alone." Sam speaks once he's swallowed another chunk of apple. "I'm here. Steve's here...Everyone is willing to help."

That only seems to get Bucky flushing, looking down at a swinging foot. Frustration rolls off him in waves. "You are here. And Steve. Yeah." 

Sam raises an eyebrow in confusion. "I know we ask you this a lot, but besides the lack of sleep, are you okay? We can keep watch or something while you sleep?"

"I'm fine." His hair moves frantically as he shakes his head. "It's fine."

That doesn't hit right, not at all, and Sam latches onto it with a gentle sigh. "Or just Steve? I can ask him in the morning when he finally gets his ass out of--"

"No." The reply comes out too fast, breathless, as if any and all energy is focused on his thoughts. "It's fine." 

It isn’t. He knows that.

Sam retreats, muffling a sigh (which probably lands with that supersoldier hearing) and nodding in reluctant acceptance. "If you say so, man." 

Bucky doesn't reply immediately, but when he does, it’s rushed. 

"It's just-" His pause is followed by his eyes closing, steeling himself. "Fuck. I think I was better at this before, but-" He tugs at his hair slightly, breathing deep. "You and Steve have your thing. It's beautiful. You're beautiful-" 

_ Fuck. _

The words white-out Sam's current thought process for at least a minute, jaw slack, but Bucky seems unaware as he continues to ramble. By the looks of it, he isn't stopping once he's started, words tumbling like a waterfall.

_ Holy fuck. _

"I don't want to ask because that involves me _asking if _I could just have you both hold me but that's wrong. You're both happy and I shouldn't-" Those baby blues start gathering tears, but he fights them back, looking frustrated by their appearance. "I shouldn't. That's it."

Fists close in his lap.

He exhales.

So he sits there, shaking like a leaf and looking down at the tiles, hands now clasped together like a lifeline. Sam isn't sure how long he stays still, but a shaky breath tears through the façade and rattles out of his chest, afraid. 

Bucky stops speaking, swallowing hard. 

The silence stirs, only seeming to thicken the air around them, and Sam feels something click into place. A gesture so small, he almost misses it among the size of his thoughts, spectacularly big as they are. It's almost like a doorway, he muses, only opening once found. 

_ You're beautiful- _

He opens the door.

"Then come to bed." His murmur is small, tentative, and that sends a visible jolt through Bucky, which only dissolves into fearful shivers as Sam gets up from his stool. "There's room, I promise." 

Bucky's chuckle oozes doubt, a hand reaching up to wipe away a tear. "You're kidding. Joking. Messin' with me-" 

"I'm not." Sam, watching the movement, takes a step forward, hand out. "Come. We'll sleep in today." 

"...You're messin' with me. You have to be." 

"Check with me later today, but I promise you I'm not lying." He flexes his fingers, waiting patiently.

He waits for a while, waiting for the other’s move.

Bucky stares down at the hand, fear written across his features, and then reaches out tentatively. 

The hand closes in Sam's own, and the latter pulls the former off the counter gently, hyper-aware of the warmth shared between them, calloused fingertips pressing lightly along the backs of their hands. 

He squeezes the hand slightly, offering a smile. 

"Ready to go?"

Bucky, fully absorbed in the contact, startles slightly, pupils blowing out in slight embarrassment, but he nods. 

The go, hand in hand, and walk-in silence.

The room is dark when they enter, and Sam smiles at the hoarse snoring coming from the bed. Steve, deep asleep, had maneuvered himself into the middle of the bed, an arm still outstretched where Sam had slept. 

Bucky made a small noise at the sight, turning to Sam with wariness. "Are you sure?" The murmur is shaky. "Sam-"

He ignores it, deciding to show rather than tell as he gently leads Bucky to the other side of the bed. If anything, Steve has probably already warmed it up. 

Bucky stares, astounded and immensely overwhelmed, and Sam hums softly in reassurance.

_ It's fine. _

“It’s fine.”

It takes an infinite amount of time for Bucky to slide into bed, stiff in his motions as he pulls the covers over himself, only to freeze as Steve stirs. 

Sam feels a similar halt of motion within himself, breath catching.

They wait.  
  
Steve doesn’t wake up; instead, he twists, settles, and sleeps once more, back pressed slightly on Bucky's side.

They all seem to exhale at once, for different reasons. 

“Hey…” Once Sam is sure Bucky won't bolt the moment he steps away, he makes his own way back to his side of the bed, sliding back in and pushing Steve's arm up and over him. "You good over there?" The whisper is soft enough to let Steve sleep, and Sam spots a nod in the dark. 

"I'm...yeah." 

"Just let me know if you're not doing great, okay?" 

The reply was softer but somehow clearer. "I will." 

It's with those words that Bucky seems to hunker down, back to both of them as he tries to sleep. Sam isn't sure how long he stays up, listening for anything out of the ordinary, but sleep snags him for what feels like an hour, only for the sun to have risen high in the sky when he wakes.

An arm, heavy, stays wrapped around his middle, and when he turns to push Steve off, he finds the man _ still asleep, _ head pressed firmly on the pillow as his snore rings true. _ He's that tired, huh? _

His other hand is nowhere in sight, which prompts Sam to wriggle up, attempting to peak over the man and catch a glimpse of the other member in the room.

What he sees both pulls the breath into his lungs and knocks it out, pupils wide as he makes out the shape of a sleeping Barnes, one arm hanging limply off the bed while the other loops protectively over Steve. When he looks down, however, Barnes' hand would have been on his back in this position, as if attempting to hold them both. 

Sam's heart swells, warm.

_ <So...both of them?> _ Redwing, ever the polite one, pings in as he does so, and Sam can feel him assessing like his aunts when he brought someone home. _ <Both? Of them?> _

_ Perhaps _ . He looks back at them both huddling for warmth, and smiles. _ If they'll have me. _

_ <Are you sure?> _  
  
_ Of course. _  
_  
_<Both...of them? So many humans exist, Samuel->

_ Redwing. Shut up. _

_ <...But, if they make you smile, I am happy. Humans, you never cease to amaze. Go back to sleep.> _

_ Will you get out of my head when I do? _

_ <Yes. Pay attention to your humans.> _

_ Are you sure? You seem very clingy right now. _He makes sure to parrot what was just said to him, which makes the bird amused from wherever he resided.

_ <And so are your humans. Go to sleep.> _The falcon acknowledges it, and shuts off, leaving Sam back to his own thoughts. 

And sleep. Warm. 

So he does what is suggested, tugging the covers over all three of them and pressing close, a leg tangling with another under the covers. 

It is comfortable.

It felt right.

He holds on with vigor.

_ He can do this. _

Whatever the future held, it looked bigger and brighter from the dark room, and Sam wishes it can only rise from thereon. To rise, to soar, was the greatest thing in life, after all, riding the winds with outspread wings.

But to fall? Oh, he didn't mind, as long as he could protect the ones he loved. To fall was a promise, and he strives to keep it. 

_ Sometimes you need to fall to fly. _

Bucky stirs slightly, hand brushing across his back, and Sam smiles. 

_ Maybe it was time to fly together. _

* * *

* * *

High above the trees, the birds soar, wings spread and eyes sharp as they navigate the winds. Below, some birds swim, skimming the water's surface, while others race across grass and sand alike. Some burrow for homes or nest in trees, while many ignore the spikes of mankind's greed and still place down their twigs and leaves, but they live.

They grow.

They thrive. 

They know they'll make it, as nature intended.

For they know their secrets, words passed down from nest to nest without fail or learned through experience. It suits them. It honors nature. It lets them uncover the great big world they live in. 

It's far too big to navigate alone, after all.

_ "Retiring?" _

So Redwing watches as his human, finally back from the place where the ancient ones do not tread, stares up at America Human, holding an object that was once not his, but someone else's.

_ "But it is yours." _ He hears him say, leaning forward to press his lips to a cheek. _ "You're a good man, Sam." _

_ "The best man." _ Redwing turns as Raccoon Human saunters over, wrapping an arm around Sam's waist as he leans in. _ "The best. Have to one-up Stevie-" _

_ "Come on Buck." _That seems to pull a laugh out of Sam for only a moment or so, strained, but he's smiling as he leans over to kiss them both. 

Mates, the three of them. An odd little human, trio.

_ "Thank you." _

Samuel means it. Redwing knows. 

The human’s heart is too vast not to.

And as he wishes to express that from the tree, Sam stands a little taller, eyes looking a little less glossy by the second. 

The link opens up soon after, bright and beautiful. 

_ How are you doing up there, Red? _

Sam grins, and Redwing can't help but glide down, startling America human just for the fun of it, which pulls a laugh out of his human.

Their human. _ <I am good. Better.> _ Fingertips brush along his back, and he caws softly. _ <Missed you.> _

_ I missed you too. Ready to face the world once more? _

The words are unnecessary in their existence, but Redwing understands the sentiment. 

_ <You know my answer.> _  
_  
_And yet I’ll still ask.

A flock always communicates, and that is what they are. 

_ <Until the skies feel small, we'll fly together.> _

They'd all fly, soon enough, even if their feet never left the ground, for it was the soul that soared the most, and he could only hope the humans would understand it soon without death’s pull to show him. For the time being, they could make others happier, if not safer.

There was so much to dom after all

They have time.

_ "Then let's do this." _ Sam seems to echo his thoughts aloud, hefting the shield with his usual sense of purpose, and looks to the sky. 

The great unknown. Beautiful. Big.

Home.

With a grin that lights up the world, and the songs of a million birds weaving through his voice, Sam lets the wind guide him once more. _ "Where do we start?" _  
  
Redwing, unafraid, lets life pull at his wings once more. 

They’d be just fine.


End file.
